Broken Crown
August 11, 201010:30 AM ISTWankhede Stadium, Mumbai — Global Broadcast on Omnilink Live
The Ashura Syndicate banner, which had flown proudly from the center tier of Wankhede, was no longer the loudest flag in the crowd.
On Day 1, Indian fans had drowned out everything — drums, chants, synchronized waves of blue and silver flashing across the stands. Now, the rhythm had faltered, replaced by awkward silences and fragmented claps, as if the crowd was trying to summon enthusiasm they no longer felt.
But in the western stands, a wave of red, white, and blue broke through.
"USA! USA! USA!"
Northern Lights' fans had found their voices, and after FoxHound's squad delivered back-to-back top 5 finishes on Day 1, they were no longer shy about it.
"We knew we were underdogs," a young American fan told a reporter, her face painted with a makeshift Nova logo. "But this isn't just a game — this is us showing the world we still dominate."
In the southern stands, a cluster of South Korean fans — smaller but louder — had set up a drum line, pounding out rhythmic beats every time Crimson Dragoons scored a kill.
"대한민국! 대한민국!"
RJ Menon stood in the commentary booth, his normally enthusiastic face lined with subtle tension. "It's… a very different energy today, Pulse."
Adrian "Pulse" Greaves smiled tightly beside him. "Day 1 was all hope and pride. Day 2? The crowd's waiting for a miracle — and they're starting to hedge their bets."
The leaderboard hovered on the main screens, Ashura Syndicate sitting at 9th, within reach — if they could recover.
"Can they?" RJ asked, not really posing the question to Pulse — but to fate itself.
Day 2 — Match 1 — Emberfall Ridge
The airship sliced through the hazy volcanic sky, players diving off in pairs and clusters, leaving streaking trails like falling stars over a battlefield.
"Ashura Syndicate — they're dropping northwest," Pulse narrated. "That's close to Ember Cliffs, one of the most contested loot zones on the entire map."
"Bold," RJ said, trying to sound impressed instead of concerned. "But bold is what got them here."
The first warning came fast.
"Tengu's Wrath already in the sector," Pulse cut in. "They landed cleaner, looted faster, and they've got first sight on the main approach road."
"PhantomRift's calling for a split rotation," RJ noted, eyes narrowing. "Half the squad's looping through the lava trench, the others cutting wide."
"It's… a plan," Pulse said, failing to sound convinced.
On-screen, VortexX crossed open ground — no cover, no overwatch.
A single sniper shot from Tengu's captain, Shirokaze, caught him square in the chest. VortexX's health bar evaporated.
"VortexX down already!" RJ winced. "That's—too early."
In the crowd, a wave of groans rippled through the Indian sections, like a collective stomach cramp.
PhantomRift's voice was sharp on comms, though viewers couldn't hear the exact words — just the tone, clipped and impatient. The remaining Ashura players scrambled to cover the retreat, but by then, it was already a three-squad crossfire, with Tengu's Wrath, Seoul Revenants, and Northern Lights converging on the same high-ground ridge.
It wasn't a battle.
It was a feeding frenzy.
"26th place," Pulse's voice was uncharacteristically soft. "Only 3 kills."
The leaderboard flickered.
Ashura Syndicate — 14th.
Day 2 — Match 2 — Frostspire Basin
Even before they dropped, the tension inside Ashura's player pods was visible — PhantomRift's fingers drumming the console edge, VortexX's jaw locked tight, ShadowWolf not even making eye contact.
"Here's the thing," Pulse said, his professional tone still holding, "you can recover from one bad match. But you can't recover if your squad stops trusting the plan."
The drop itself was clean — too clean.
"They're playing scared," RJ observed. "Hugging the edge of the zone, avoiding hot loot spots — they're playing not to lose."
But the global finals don't reward cowards.
At the first circle rotation, they found themselves boxed in — Garuda Legion to the south, La Tormenta Negra to the east.
"They need to move," Pulse said. "PhantomRift's calling for a disengage."
But VortexX didn't disengage.
He hesitated — caught between covering fire and looting, exposing himself in the open for a fraction of a second.
A sniper round from La Tormenta Negra split the air.
"VortexX down!" RJ's voice cracked. "Again!"
PhantomRift's voice in comms was tight, clipped — no screaming, no frustration, just cold command.
"Pull back."
But the damage was done.
"They're isolated," Pulse said grimly. "Garuda's moving up from the trench."
The screen split — PhantomRift and ShadowWolf, backs to the frozen cliff wall, cut off from rotation.
"They need a miracle," RJ said softly.
No miracle came.
"29th place," Pulse announced. "5 kills."
Between Matches — Stadium Atmosphere Shift
The Indian sections were quieter, but the foreign supporters were louder than ever.
The American fans had taken over the north side, chanting every time FoxHound appeared on screen.
"Let's go Lights! Let's go Lights!"
The South Korean fans' drums had found a new rhythm — one synchronized with Crimson Dragoons' kill count, each elimination punctuated with a boom, boom, clap.
In the Japanese section, Tengu's Wrath fans held up banners of Shirokaze, each sniper kill greeted with a tidal wave of polite applause — and vicious online spam.
In the Indian section, fans sat clutching their flags, but the cheering was quieter, punctuated with murmurs of frustration. Parents who had come to support their kids' favorite team looked uncomfortable, unsure if they should still feel proud or just disappointed.
One teenage fan muttered to his friend, "They're not playing like the qualifiers. Something's wrong."
In the VIP box, Aditya Pratap's smile had disappeared completely.
Day 2 — Match 3 — Emberfall Ridge (Evening Round)
If the morning matches were mistakes, this was a meltdown.
Ashura Syndicate dropped into contested loot again, this time too slow, landing split across two sectors with no cover.
"Are they… hesitating?" RJ asked, eyebrows raised.
"They're second-guessing every move," Pulse answered. "You can't survive a final if you're arguing with yourself."
The camera feed caught PhantomRift's hands tightening on his controls, his movements slightly slower than his usual reflex-driven flow.
Crimson Dragoons didn't even need to ambush them.
They walked into the trap.
PhantomRift made a desperation rotation, leaving ShadowWolf exposed — a sniper tag from FrostLynx cut him down mid-movement.
The final collapse came in less than ninety seconds, Ashura Syndicate dying to a crossfire trap that should've been obvious.
"31st place," RJ's voice was almost a whisper. "2 kills."
The Indian crowd didn't boo.
They just stopped making noise.
August 11, 20103:15 PM ISTWankhede Stadium — Northern Lights Team Room
The American squad's lounge was almost clinical — snacks unopened, chairs left in near-perfect formation, the room spotless except for a single whiteboard covered in fresh notes.
FoxHound leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching his coach, Mike Harding, calmly sketch out a crude heatmap of Ashura Syndicate's deaths across Day 1 and Day 2.
"They never learn," Harding muttered, red marker circling the same cluster of high-ground positions Ashura kept trying to hold.
"They cling to old habits," Ava DuPont, the team's analyst, added from her seat. "PhantomRift treats every map like a highlight reel audition — high-ground, long-range, hero angles. If you cut off those options, he crumbles."
FoxHound's expression was unreadable, but there was no sympathy in his voice. "They're not a threat."
"They were never a threat," Harding corrected. "They were a narrative. A feel-good story. A 'homegrown underdog makes good' headline. Real contenders adapt."
He tapped the board.
"They're not adapting."
Ava leaned back, scrolling through player telemetry data pulled from Omnilink's public API feed — something every team's analyst was doing, hunting for reaction time slippage, stress spikes, micro-movement delays.
"PhantomRift's reactions slowed by 18 milliseconds between Day 1 and Day 2," Ava said. "That's not fatigue. That's hesitation."
Harding capped the marker, turning to FoxHound. "Tomorrow, if we end up near them, we pinch. No hesitation."
FoxHound gave a single, sharp nod.
Ashura Syndicate wasn't just falling apart.
They were becoming a point farm.
August 11, 20103:45 PM ISTWankhede Stadium — Crimson Dragoons Lounge
The South Korean team's prep room felt more like a command center, every player's personal pod surrounded by modular monitors displaying custom tactical breakdowns, each one tuned to individual player tendencies.
RyuHan stood beside his coach, Kim Dae-Won, the two of them reviewing Ashura's rotational patterns on a split-screen hologram projected onto the table.
"They still think positioning wins games," Kim said, tone flat. "They forget this isn't a regional LAN."
"They hesitate at every push," RyuHan said quietly. "We can feel it in their rotations."
"PhantomRift thinks too much," Kim added. "He's trying to compensate for his squad's lack of trust, so every call is delayed. Every angle double-checked."
RyuHan's fingers lightly drummed the table. "That means we can predict them."
Kim didn't smile — he was too old for that — but there was a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. "We don't need to fear them anymore."
"We can farm them," RyuHan corrected.
There was no cruelty in his voice.
It was simply fact.
August 11, 20104:10 PM ISTWankhede Stadium — Tengu's Wrath Prep Room
The Japanese team's room was eerily silent, except for the gentle click-click-click of Shirokaze's mechanical keyboard as he reviewed kill feeds and death logs, his fingers moving with the same precision he used in-game.
Behind him, his tactician, a thin man in an unmarked black suit, stood with a printed map — not digital, but physical — covered in tiny pencil marks where Ashura Syndicate had died.
"They fear you now," the tactician said softly.
Shirokaze didn't respond.
The tactician continued. "Ashura Syndicate used to play with confidence. Now they play with expectation. They expect to lose, so they hesitate at every window."
Shirokaze finally spoke, voice quiet and even. "They die one by one."
The tactician's eyes crinkled slightly, the closest thing to a smile he ever allowed. "Tomorrow, if they drop near us, you will not hunt them."
Shirokaze turned slightly. "No?"
"You will wait."
Shirokaze raised one eyebrow.
"Prey that panics," the tactician said softly, "kills itself."
Shirokaze's hand returned to his keyboard, his focus already back on the data.
4:30 PM — VIP Skybox Overlook
From the private skybox, Prince Fahad bin Khalid Al Saud leaned against the glass railing, watching the emptying stadium below, his expression unreadable.
Beside him, one of his aides whispered in Arabic. "The Indian team is falling."
The prince's gaze stayed on the field. "Falling doesn't matter."
His aide hesitated. "Then what does?"
The prince's fingers tapped lightly against the glass. "Whether they break."
Because broken things were easier to buy.
4:45 PM — Outside Wankhede — Indian Fan Reactions
Outside the stadium, the atmosphere was nothing like Day 1. The energy had shifted, the streets quieter, the impromptu fan parades dissolving into clusters of arguments and frustration.
"They're playing like they've never touched the game before," one fan muttered, shaking his head.
"Pressure," his friend replied. "Home ground pressure."
"Then they shouldn't be here," the first fan snapped back. "If you can't handle the crowd, why are you India's team?"
The nearby vendor stall, which had been selling Ashura Syndicate scarves, was now heavily discounting them, hoping to unload stock before Day 3 started.
Omnilink Global Chat Feed (Top Reactions)
WarKing47: This is painful to watch.FoxFan92: Northern Lights boutta farm these clowns lol.KolkataGamer91: They're embarrassing us at home.ShiroSnipes: Tengu's Wrath didn't even break a sweat.PhantomRiftStan: They can still come back, right? Right?RJ4Prez: If RJ has to explain one more dumb rotation I'm gonna cry.
The dream team was becoming a punchline.
August 11, 201011:45 PM ISTTaj Mahal Palace Hotel, Mumbai — Ashura Syndicate Suite
The room smelled faintly of sweat, instant noodles, and frustration, the air conditioner humming loud enough to make conversation feel unnecessary — or impossible.
VortexX sat sprawled on the couch, his headset still around his neck, one leg bouncing rhythmically, a leftover tic from hours of suppressed tension. ShadowWolf stood at the window, half-hidden behind the curtain, staring at the silent view of Marine Drive, though his reflection in the glass showed the barely-contained storm brewing inside him.
PhantomRift sat at the dining table, both hands wrapped around an untouched glass of water, elbows planted firmly on the wood — his shoulders hunched, head bowed, as if he could compress himself into a smaller, more manageable failure.
The silence had weight.
Then VortexX, without turning his head, muttered, "We're a goddamn joke."
PhantomRift's fingers tapped once, twice against the glass. "Don't start."
"No, let's," ShadowWolf said, pushing off the window. "Let's talk about how we were supposed to be the pride of India, and now we're the world's favorite punching bag."
PhantomRift lifted his head, his face worn thin from hours of internal blame. "I said — don't start."
"You're not in charge here," VortexX snapped, finally turning around, eyes bloodshot. "You don't get to tell us when we can talk. We're not your minions."
PhantomRift's chair scraped back sharply. "I built this squad."
"And now you're burying it," VortexX shot back. "Every match, every call — you act like you're the only one who knows how to play. You don't listen, you don't adapt — you just pull us into whatever bullshit highlight you've imagined in your head."
ShadowWolf stepped between them, not to stop the fight — just to make sure he was heard too.
"You can't micro-manage ten players at once, Rift," ShadowWolf said, voice low. "You built this team like it was your personal solo queue squad. We aren't props. We're players. But you treat us like NPCs."
PhantomRift's jaw locked. "You think I want this?"
VortexX's laugh was ugly, sharp. "You think you deserve sympathy? You're the one who stood in front of all of India and said we'd bring the crown home. You made us promise that. But you didn't think about what happens when it all falls apart, did you?"
PhantomRift's voice dropped. "We can still come back."
ShadowWolf's bitter smile stretched too tight. "Are you actually serious? Did you even look at the standings?"
"25th," VortexX said flatly. "25th out of 40. We're not a team anymore — we're a fucking meal ticket."
PhantomRift's knuckles whitened against the table edge. "So that's it? You're giving up?"
"I'm done pretending," VortexX said. "Tomorrow, I'm playing for me. If you want a coordinated squad, find one that still trusts you."
The silence that followed was absolute.
ShadowWolf didn't argue.
Neither did PhantomRift.
Because there was nothing left to say.
The unity that had carried them through qualifiers, through the early glory — it was gone.
All that was left were individuals wearing the same jersey.
Same Time — Northern Lights Team Room
The mood in the American camp was the exact opposite — relaxed, almost celebratory.
FoxHound sat at the center table, one leg propped up, eating a slice of pepperoni pizza while Ava DuPont mapped drop patterns across Emberfall Ridge for Day 3.
"So," FoxHound said between bites. "We all saw that mess today. What's the plan?"
"Simple," Ava said, not looking up. "If they land anywhere near us — we follow."
"Shadow them?" FoxHound asked.
"Shadow's too polite," Ava said. "We farm them."
Mike Harding, their coach, leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "They're a guaranteed ten points now. They hesitate, they rotate late, they never hold ground — they're walking XP."
"So," FoxHound said, chewing thoughtfully. "Day 3 strat — secure loot, farm Ashura, then focus on the real threats."
Ava smiled. "Exactly."
No one even questioned if Ashura Syndicate could recover.
That possibility was already dead.
Same Time — Crimson Dragoons Prep Room
RyuHan sat with his squad, a quiet confidence radiating through the room.
On the central screen, a highlight reel played — every time Ashura Syndicate died on Day 2, with timestamps, weapon loadouts, and cause-of-death analysis.
"They're broken," Kim Dae-Won said, folding his arms. "Tomorrow, if they land in our region—"
"We take them," RyuHan finished. "Fast. Clean. No hesitation."
"We could let them be," one of his support players offered, almost lazily.
"No," RyuHan said softly. "Weak teams spread instability. Strong teams clean up."
He didn't smile.
Ashura wasn't competition anymore.
They were an obligation.
Same Time — Tengu's Wrath Team Suite
Shirokaze knelt in the corner, hands resting lightly on his thighs, eyes closed in meditation. Around him, the screens flickered with kill maps, but no sound played.
His tactician, standing beside him, spoke softly.
"We will not hunt them tomorrow."
Shirokaze opened one eye.
"We will not need to," the tactician continued. "Others will. Their trail will be obvious. The predators will come."
Shirokaze closed his eye again.
"We will simply wait," the tactician finished. "And when the prey is gone — we will face the real enemies."
Ashura Syndicate wasn't worth a bullet.
Not anymore.
August 12, 2010
10:00 AM IST
Wankhede Stadium, Mumbai / Global Broadcast — Omnilink Live
The atmosphere inside Wankhede had changed. The euphoria of Day 1 was a distant memory, replaced by something brittle, unspoken — the kind of collective dread fans feel when they know what's coming, but still can't bring themselves to say it aloud.
The Ashura Syndicate banners, once proudly waved, were still hanging — but fewer fans wore their colors. Even the drumlines — once relentless — were subdued, their rhythms hollow.
In the commentary booth, RJ Menon tried to summon his usual warmth, but even his tone had the awkward cheerfulness of a man introducing a funeral.
"Day 3, Pulse," RJ said, eyes on the live leaderboard. "Ashura Syndicate sitting at… 25th. Not where anyone expected."
Pulse's smile was thin. "They need a perfect day to even touch the top ten again, and the field isn't going to make that easy."
"Not just the field," RJ said quietly. "The hunters."
10:30 AM — Match 1 — Emberfall Ridge
The map loaded, molten rivers cutting through jagged stone spires. Players hovered in the pre-match airship, team logos flickering across their drop indicators.
In the Northern Lights team pod, FoxHound grinned at his squad. "If they drop near us, we follow."
In the Crimson Dragoons pod, RyuHan's voice was calm, instructive. "If we spot them, we collapse early."
In the Tengu's Wrath pod, Shirokaze didn't speak at all. His squad knew.
Ashura Syndicate was everyone's first objective.
The drops began.
"Here we go," RJ announced. "Ashura Syndicate — dropping central basin, aiming for the Nexus again."
Pulse's voice tightened. "Bad choice. Nexus has no outer cover."
It took less than two minutes for the first shadow to appear.
"Northern Lights just landed southwest ridge, they have full line-of-sight," Pulse said.
"Wait," RJ cut in. "Crimson Dragoons — they're coming down the eastern trench."
"And—oh god." Pulse's voice cracked. "Tengu's Wrath — northeast cliffs."
The screen zoomed out.
Three top-tier teams were closing in on the same location, from three angles, without firing a shot at each other.
They all wanted the same meal.
PhantomRift's POV
Inside his pod, PhantomRift's headset crackled with VortexX's voice. "I see movement west."
"Rotate north," PhantomRift said instantly. "Use the collapsed turbine for cover."
"No, wait," ShadowWolf cut in. "There's movement east — trench."
PhantomRift's eyes flicked across the map. "Then go south — break line."
"Nope," VortexX's voice had a thin edge of panic. "They're up there too."
It hit him all at once.
"They're boxing us," PhantomRift whispered, voice almost too soft to register.
"What?" ShadowWolf asked.
"They're not fighting each other," PhantomRift said, his throat dry. "They're only moving on us."
He barely had time to finish the sentence.
The first sniper round punched through VortexX's helmet, sending his health bar straight to zero.
"Sniped from the ridge!" RJ shouted. "That's Northern Lights — first blood!"
PhantomRift dove behind cover, but the killfeed lit up.
ShadowWolf eliminated by Crimson Dragoons.
VortexX eliminated by Northern Lights.
AshuraSupport eliminated by Tengu's Wrath.
In less than ninety seconds, they were down to PhantomRift alone.
"PhantomRift's got nowhere to go!" Pulse's voice was high with disbelief. "Every exit is covered — it's a coordinated hunt!"
The feed shifted to PhantomRift's player cam — his eyes wide, breathing shallow, fingers trembling slightly on the controls.
"They're not fighting each other," PhantomRift whispered into his mic.
And they weren't.
FoxHound, RyuHan, and Shirokaze had already shifted to the next phase, forming a loose triangle, cutting off every rotation option.
"It's not a fight, RJ." Pulse's voice was grim. "It's a culling."
PhantomRift broke left — directly into a sniper shot from Shirokaze.
Ashura Syndicate eliminated.
"40th place," RJ said softly. "Zero kills."
The stadium was silent.
12:30 PM — Match 2 — Frostspire Basin
The pattern repeated.
Ashura Syndicate landed, Northern Lights followed.
Crimson Dragoons pinched.
Tengu's Wrath closed the door.
This time, they lasted just over four minutes.
"39th place," Pulse said, unable to hide the discomfort in his voice. "One kill."
It was a mercy kill, stealing a wounded player from Garuda Legion before the coordinated collapse.
Ashura Syndicate was no longer in the game.
They were target practice.
3:00 PM — Match 3 — Emberfall Ridge (Evening)
"Do you even want to watch this?" a fan muttered in the stands, the weight of national humiliation settling over the Indian sections.
The drop happened, and for two minutes, Ashura was alone.
Then the hunters came.
Northern Lights didn't even pretend this time. They chased PhantomRift's squad from drop point to circle collapse, cutting off rotations, burning through their consumables, making them bleed out — not for points, but for the humiliation.
Crimson Dragoons finished the job — a coordinated grenade sweep that left Ashura trapped in a structural collapse.
"38th place," RJ's voice was almost a whisper. "Two kills."
The stadium didn't cheer.
It didn't boo.
It just… sat there.
As if collectively processing what it felt like to be the host nation watching its champions be farmed like low-ranked amateurs.
VIP Skybox Reaction
Aditya Pratap's hands were folded tight in his lap, nails digging into his own skin. Beside him, Rabin Halder sat perfectly still, face frozen in the kind of corporate composure that only barely masked panic.
Ishita didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
This wasn't a bad day.
This was national humiliation broadcast to the world.
Omnilink Live Chat Feed
WarKing47: I can't watch this anymore.
FoxFan92: LMFAO they're literally just farming them now.
PhantomRiftStan: WHY WON'T THEY LET THEM PLAY
ShiroSnipes: This isn't bullying. This is survival of the fittest.
RJ4Prez: Someone take RJ's mic before he cries.
Final Live Leaderboard — End of Match 3
Rank Team Points
1 Northern Lights (USA) 675
2 Crimson Dragoons (South Korea) 654
3 Tengu's Wrath (Japan) 641
… … …
38 Shaurya Clan (India) 374
39 Kamikaze Vanguard (Japan) 366
40 Ashura Syndicate (India) 351
They had fallen to dead last.
In Jadavpur, Aritra stood at his window, watching Dakhuria Lake ripple under the pale light, the reflection shimmering but fractured — a perfect metaphor for what was left of Ashura Syndicate.
His phone sat silent beside him.
There was no message from Lumen.
Because even the machine knew.
There were no calculations left to make.